The Red Feather
by Wai-Jing Waraugh
Summary: An origin story. A Belgian teenager, nicknamed 'Tintin' by his joking workmates, is the new junior cadet at Le Petit Vingtième newspaper. Mentored by senior field correspondent Remi, he embarks on what will become a life-long adventure - if he can survive his first day on the job! Ruthless thugs, embassy secrets, & a faithful pooch companion all await the world's best boy reporter!
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: faithful long-time readers, I'm sorry. I should be shot through the head; or, at least, the part of my head that conceives new stories, rather than updating old ones. I promise I won't start any more new stories before I've posted a chapter or two for old ones. Promise._

_So._

_I'm a new-comer to Tintin - and as someone who wrote a Masters thesis on comics, an embarrassingly late one. I'm a graphic designer, and a recent client wants something in a 'Belgian comics style'. One of my uni lecturers was obsessed with all things Tintin, so I knew just where to look, and I am now seriously hooked on my research material (one of the perks of the job!)_

_Part of Tintin's appeal is his mysteriousness. He has no past, no family, no background - only limitless future. I've seen a few stories that attempted to fill in Tintin's early history, and I thought I'd have a crack at it - while creating a proper first case for him to tackle._

_Feel free to tell me how I'm doing - as a newbie in this fandom, I'd appreciate any feedback from those wiser and more experienced than me!_

_Please, enjoy! ~ W.J._

* * *

**The Red Feather**

**Chapter One**

Remi was abruptly pulled out of his close-to-completed article by the loud hubbub emanating from the next room.

As a senior reporter at _Le Petit Vingtième_, Remi was privileged enough to have his own office. He well remembered his junior days, when trying to write a complex report in the middle of a crowd of colleagues was akin to a poet composing verses at the centre of a stockyard. Still, he liked to keep the door to his office open whilst he wrote. Writing was a lonely profession; the distant sounds of his workmates going about their business made it seem, at least, as if they were together alone. It also managed to somewhat mute the machine-gun report of his typewriter's clattering keys, making it sound less like it might threaten to devour him, hands-first, if he didn't meet that evening's deadline.

Usually, the sounds from next door were unobtrusive enough to let him concentrate on what he was doing. With several years' experience under his belt, he could easily write an article about the tragic closure of a local box factory in his sleep, and still make the tone sound suitably sympathetic (which it was, to a point; in certain instances, a career in box-making sounded far more restful than the petty turmoil of life in the journalistic profession). Now, however, the noise was infuriatingly pervasive.

Pausing in his typing to listen more closely, he realized that he could hear raised voices, outraged cries, and what sounded like a heavy book being thrown down on a solid tabletop.

Remi lifted his hands from the keys with a sigh of resignation, much like a classical pianist disturbed while at his scales. He knew that the editor was currently ensconced away in his office, fielding a long and important call from a foreign correspondent. As the next-most-senior staffer available, he was obliged to go out and settle whatever mess was brewing next door.

He stepped out into the press room. Most of his colleagues had been likewise pulled away from their desks, and had formed a tight knot of curious people at the centre of the room. As he approached, Remi saw that Emile, a former cadet who had recently been raised to the slightly higher-ranked status of junior reporter, appeared to be at the centre of the disturbance. Remi wasn't very much surprised; Emile usually found an excuse to get out of his chair for every ten words he managed to type.

"Spy!" he was shouting, loud enough to be heard in every corner of the room; Remi wondered if his boss' correspondent could hear this impromptu interrogation happening over his end of the phone. "A spy in our midst! Who sent you? Speak up! You won't be getting out of here until you talk! Was it _The_ _Daily Reporter_? _Le Lombard_? Or perhaps _Paris Flash_?"

He sneered out this last name, of a renowned dirt-reaping rag that called itself a periodical. Several people chuckled; Remi allowed himself a wry smile.

"I'm not a spy at all," replied a second voice. It was youthful, though Remi didn't recognize it as belonging to another of their junior workers. It also sounded highly indignant. "What business would I have spying here? I doubt you have anything worth knowing, that you won't soon publish yourselves and make widely known."

A few people laughed outright at this. _Whoever this young 'spy' is,_ Remi thought to himself, _he has wit_.

Despite his age, Emile was a clear head taller than anyone else in the room. Remi alone stood a few inches above him. Looking over the rest of the crowd, he could see the ugly glower that heavily creased the lad's brow. The back of his neck was bright red; in the oppressive tension, it glowed ominously, like a danger gauge on an engineer's dial. Remi shifted uncomfortably, knowing that he should intervene, but - in true reporter fashion - hesitant to act before he knew the full story.

"So you admit you know that we have valuable intel?" Emile pressed, unwilling to give up the fight, despite his opponent's firm refute. "What was it you came here to learn?"

"Not spelling, at any rate," said the sardonic voice of Clyde, a sub-editor from the political news department. "A spy wouldn't have corrected your typing, Emile; nor gotten his correction exactly right."

Emile flushed crimson, and Remi now perceived the true source of the argument. The junior reporter was prideful, taking umbrage even when his superiors made the slightest edit to his work. It was little wonder that the critique of an outsider had so incited his rage.

"Whether he can spell or not," he muttered fiercely, glaring at his colleagues as much as he had at this interloper, "there's no denying that the wretch tried to steal the copy right off my desk."

"I wasn't stealing it!" The peak of a brown cap seemed to be making this argument; that was all that Remi could see of him, past the crush of reporters surrounding the two young men. "Those papers were almost falling off the desk! I saved them from landing in the wastepaper basket, and got hit on the back of my hand with a dictionary for my trouble! A dictionary is certainly what it needed, and perhaps I should have let it land in the bin - given the number of mistakes in it, that's most likely where it belongs!"

There was another round of guffaws at this. New creases had set in Emile's face, and his shoulders were hunched threateningly; though he couldn't quite see past his neighbour, Remi imagined that the boy's fists were likely clenched.

"You impudent dog-!"

With a yell of fury, Emile lunged at the peaked cap.

There was a gasp of surprise, a pain-filled yelp, a loud thud, a groan - and then silence, broken only by the suppressed murmurings of the watching crowd as they surged towards the fight in excitement.

Thinking now was the time to intervene, Remi pushed his way through the horde. His fellow workers, recognizing him, quickly got out of his way, allowing him to reach the centre of this chaos.

"Desist! Stop this instant!" Remi shouted. Many years ago, while he had still been completing his literature degree, he had worked part-time as an assistant clerk at a department store. He knew how to make his voice carry to the stockroom - though he sincerely hoped that right now, it hadn't travelled as far as the editor's office. He knew that his boss would hold him wholly accountable if his call was interrupted, even if the disturbance was none of his own fault.

"Everyone, back to your desks, now!" he curtly ordered everyone, eying them reproachfully. "In case you have forgotten, we have an evening edition to complete!"

At the mention of the looming deadline, the crowd of reporters sobered instantly. They dutifully slunk back to their desks, no longer able to claim distraction from the tedium of their work.

Now that they had finally cleared from his field of view, Remi was amazed to find Emile, wincing and rubbing his jaw, seated splay-legged on the ground, at the feet of a slim, trench-coated boy with a satchel slung over his shoulder. The visitor's cap had been knocked off in the scuffle; his red hair was mussed, but he appeared to be otherwise completely unscathed. His fists were still furled, and he had the air of a defiant victor - even though Emile must have been several feet taller, and twice as wide, as this little slip of a thing.

As Remi watched, this boy went over to his vanquished foe, a diminutive David approaching Goliath, with his hand outstretched.

"Are you alright?" he asked, in a friendly, even concerned, tone of voice.

The proffered hand was slapped away. Emile got to his feet, a little shakily, lines of fury still visible in his face. "If you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do," he said coldly, stomping back to his desk.

"I should say you do," Remi said loudly, noting with satisfaction that Emile's shoulders gave an involuntary twitch. "No less than eighteen mistakes in the last copy you submitted - it's unacceptable, Emile. _Le Vingt_ provides you fellows with dictionaries for a reason, and that reason is not so you can break each other's hands with them."

Emile's ears were scarlet, but he did not otherwise respond; cowed by the rebuke of his superior, he meekly bent his bulky frame over his typewriter, punching furiously at the keys. Remi now turned his attention back to their young intruder.

"And you," he said, looking down - way down - at the boy. "We don't allow members of the general public in here; especially not if they mean to start fights with our staff."

"I didn't start a fight," the boy answered, with the air of one who had been unfairly disgraced. "And I am not the general public. I am here to see Mr. Wallez. I have been assigned to _Le Petit Vingtième_ as a cadet, and I have an appointment with the editor at three-thirty, to be briefed on my duties." He eyed Remi up and down, bravely sizing up this new challenger, though like Emile, he too towered over him. "If you will only leave me in peace, I mean to wait right here until I have seen him."

Remi regarded the determined youth with equal parts amusement and exasperation. This pronouncement had been delivered with all the bravado of a sparrow crowing like a rooster. The slim, scrawny figure, crowned by a luxuriant quiff of brick-red hair in place of a cockerel's comb, solidified this impression.

Remi rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You only chose to reveal this now?"

"I didn't get a chance to do so before," the boy replied evenly.

Remi smiled despite himself. "That's true enough. Wallez is in his office, but he can't be disturbed right now. He's taking an overseas call, and will be engaged for quite some time. Your appointment will have to wait, I'm afraid - if you had breaking news you might take priority, but all you have managed to break is my junior reporter's pride."

There were a few hastily-muffled snickers from the cubicles around them. Emile looked around wrathfully, but hastily turned away again when he caught Remi's eye.

The boy, to his credit, looked sheepishly at the floor. "I didn't mean to cause any trouble..."

"I suppose trouble just naturally occurs around you," Remi replied sarcastically. Seeing that the boy now looked rather ashamed of himself, he softened his tone; he wasn't really angry, just annoyed at having been interrupted over something so trivial as office politics. "You want to be a cadet, then? Come to my office, lad, where you will be safe until Wallez is ready to see you. You've already made quite an impression; let's see how the work impresses you."

He gestured towards the open door behind him. The boy retrieved his hat from where it had fallen on the floor, smoothed his hair careful before donning it, then followed Remi across the press room floor.

"Leave the door ajar," Remi ordered over his shoulder, as he seated himself at his typewriter again. "I have an article still to complete, and the noise from outside is soothing - usually, at any rate. You can sit there and wait while I finish up. Then we will talk things over."

Without waiting for a response, he began to rapidly pound at the keys. There was no occasion for talk over the tooth-rattling clamour and frequent line-end dings of the contraption. Remi dashed off a dozen more lines, paused to give this last paragraph one final cursory glance, then tore it out of the machine, placing it neatly face-down atop a stack that already lay upon the desk. Satisfied that he had staved off the sinister approach of the evening deadline for another day, Remi returned his attention back to his visitor. The boy was sitting quietly in his chair, twisting his cap in his hands. Remi noticed that the knuckles of his right hand were still slightly red.

"How does the prospect of the work suit you, eh, lad?" Remi asked, in a slightly mocking tone. "It's not all corrections and cock-fights. Most days, the only things you'll be punching are a typewriter's keys. We've had a lot of cadets come in, attracted by the supposed 'glamour' of reportage, only to realize that they have signed up for hours upon hours of ceaseless typing. Does that sound at all attractive to a rugged warrior such as yourself?"

The boy's face burned, though he met Remi's eyes squarely. "I'm no warrior, sir - not really. And I'm not afraid of desk work. I can type pretty fast. At least thirty words per minute, at my best."

Remi rubbed his chin and eyed him contemplatively. _Well, the boy certainly was a trove of talents!_ Still, given this cadet's extraordinary arrival, he still had some reservations. "That's all very well and good, but you'll need to think a great deal, not just mindlessly type - enough so-called 'writers' at other papers do that. We at _Le Vingt_ pride ourselves on the quality of our work. You need to have very strong writing sensibilities and complete coherence to make the grade here. Speaking of which, have you finished school yet?"

"Yes, sir. Completed my final semester this summer past. Mr Wallez has copies of my academic transcripts, you can see them-"

"In good time," Remi said, waving the offer away. Education wasn't the main focus behind his question; the lad looked lucky to be much older than twelve. "You're fifteen years old, then?"

"Fourteen, sir." Remi noticed the slight hesitation as he said it. Supposing - rightfully - that he had interpreted it as a lie, the boy hastened to explain. "You see, sir, I don't know exactly when my birthday is. I assume that my fourteenth year at least must have gone by already; possibly my fifteenth as well. But I honestly don't know for sure."

"Huh." This wasn't the response Remi had been expecting. His natural reporter's curiosity was piqued, but he didn't wish to make matters too personal. He was interviewing a new cadet, not pursuing a story. "And you ultimately wish to become a full-fledged reporter?"

"Yes, sir." The boy now looked eager. A bright spot appeared in each of his cheeks, and he smiled for the first time since he had arrived, suddenly full of vim and vigour. He looked almost roguish, in the height of his enthusiasm. "There's nothing else I'd rather do, sir. I like words, like telling stories. I want to be able to tell things to the world, to make sure that the truth is always known."

Remi snorted softly at this. He had had many such idealistic creatures around the office in his time; not a one of them had been able to remain so. He wondered how long this one would take to become just as jaded as the rest of them. Given the unwavering conviction he saw in the round young face before him, probably longer than most.

"I'll shatter that illusion for you now, lad: there is very little truth involved in reporting the news. Some accuracy, yes; a great need for entertainment, certainly; but seldom very much actual truth."

The boy fiddled with the brim of his cap, looking sombre again. "Well," he said, slowly, "perhaps that gives me even more reason to pursue this as a career, sir. I could take it upon myself to put some truth back into it."

"Are you criticizing what we do here, boy?" Remi asked sharply; then he smiled, to show that he was only joking. "Well, the crushing weight of realism certainly won't break you for quite a while to come. I'm inclined to say that you are far too principled for this work, but that might change in time. Based on everything that you have said - not to mention the pluck that you have shown - I am sure that my boss will be happy to take you on as a cadet, er-"

He only now realized, in particularly bad form for a reporter, that he didn't yet have the lad's name.

"Martin," the boy supplied readily. "Martin Paul Delamarre, at your service, sir."

"Martin Delamarre, is it?" Remi repeated, with a broad grin suddenly splitting his hitherto impassive face; the name tickled his sense of humour. "Given your spectacular entrance, I think I shall christen you 'Tintamarre*'. With the commotion you caused, it would certainly suit."

The boy grinned. "If we are to work together, you may call me whatever you want, Mister-"

"Remi." The senior reporter automatically plucked a card from the case he kept in his pocket, as a means of professional courtesy, and handed it over. It was printed with his name, his occupation, the address of his office, and his telephone number. "Augustin Prosper Remi - though to most, it is simply 'Remi'. That is how my faithful readers know me, at any rate - how the masses love to give their idols nicknames. I haven't been called 'Augustin' in many years." He smiled companionably across at the lad. "All the same, it's good to have another '-tin' about the office, Martin."

"We shall have to collectively dub you pair the 'Tin-Tins', shall we?" said a voice from the doorway, attracting their notice for the first time. A woman with prim curls and a pair of pince-nez perched on her nose stood there, a clipboard in her hand, a pert smile upon her heavily-rouged lips.

"Very funny, Annalise," Remi said, awarding Wallez's personal secretary credit for her well-placed jibe. They had been working together for some time now, and had formed an easy camaraderie. "Is Wallez available? Our young friend here needs an introduction-"

"-and he can't have it just yet, I'm afraid," Annalise replied, adroitly. "As soon as he rang off from Geneva, he got a call through from Calcutta. He'll be occupied for a while yet. In the meantime, he said to take our young friend out into the field with you on your next story - that is, if you are done with the evening reports."

"Of course I am done," Remi answered, a little huffily; he was proud of his punctuality, his as-yet unbroken concession to those incessantly demanding deadlines. "So I guess I am free to have the youngster fobbed off on me." He looked across at the lad, who had been listening attentively to their conversation, and winked. "Your first assignment starts now, Martin."

"After you have filled out these forms," Annalise corrected him, passing the boy her clipboard. "We'll have to get a press pass made up for you, before you can go running off to the frontier." She took the boy firmly by the shoulder. "I'll get him set up, Remi, while you submit those-" she pointed to the paper stack "-and get your next delegation. We wouldn't want one half of Tin-Tin to be left unable to cross civilian lines, now would we?"

"Ha, ha," Remi muttered after her, as she deftly steered the boy out of the office and down the hall. He had an ominous feeling that the nickname would soon stick.

He took his typed articles to the editorial office, then collected his next assignment from the sub-editor. He had already telephoned ahead to arrange an interview, and was making preliminary notes in his casebook, when the boy returned.

"Look," he said, "I already have a professional nom-de-plume."

He pointed to the press pass that he had pinned to the front of his coat. It said, in bold letters that were beyond refute: 'Tintin'.

"Huh," Remi said, with a smile. "It looks like Emile has had his revenge. That would probably be his handiwork." He now remembered that, as the lowest-ranked junior reporter, Emile would be responsible for such trifles as fetching tea, replacing typewriter ribbons, and making up press passes. Well, _had_ been responsible; as the newly-added lowest rung on the publication's internal ladder, their cadet, 'Tintin', would now be given charge of such things.

"I told you, didn't I, that truth has no place in journalism," Remi told the lad, who was gazing at the label with something between bemusement and consternation. "It's not so bad," he added, consolingly. "My first press pass had 'Gusti' written on it, by some clever person - I never found out exactly who, though to this day, I suspect it was Clyde. Just like a political correspondent - what an abysmal sense of humour! I still entertain myself by thinking up ways to make him confess." The boy grinned at that, placated somewhat. Remi went on: "You should be able to change it once you've earned your stripes. Speaking of which, you can start making yourself useful right now."

He crossed to the hat-stand that stood beside the door, put on his coat and hat, wound a scarf around his neck, and picked up a large dispatch case that stood at the foot of the rack. "Your first duty is to carry this for me. It's an important role, one that I fully entrust you with. No position in this office is better appreciated than 'pack mule'."

"Yes, sir," the boy said, with a chuckle, shouldering the bag along with his own. It was heavy, Remi knew; but he hefted the burden easily, without complaint.

"Right," Remi said, returning to matters of his own equipment. With his notebook and pen securely in his pocket, he was set to turn from desk-clerk to field-agent. He led the boy briskly back into the press room, through front reception, and out into the street.

The location of their first assignment was within walking distance. Remi set a brisk pace - though this was a relatively insignificant affair, experience told him that it always paid to be the first member of the press on the scene - and was impressed to see that the boy kept pace.

"Not too heavy for you?" he asked, rather kindly. For each of his own long strides, the boy took two, and he was weighed down by baggage besides.

"No, sir," came the reply. Remi was pleased to note that the boy wasn't panting to keep up. "I'm stronger than I look."

"As you so succinctly demonstrated to Emile," Remi retorted, though the lad's statement had been a modest one, and was certainly well-proven. "Just mind you take care of that case. It contains a portable typewriter and a camera, both of which would be rather expensive to have to replace."

"Yes, sir," came the dutiful reply. Then, after a short pause: "Sir, can you tell me where we are going?"

"Already tired of unquestionably going where you're ordered?" Remi laughed; the boy did too. "Well, lad, your illustrious first assignment is to cover a robbery at a pet store." He turned to smile at the boy's non-plussed expression. "You see? I told you that it was mostly dull work; no celebrity interview or international intrigue just yet."

"Oh, no," the lad protested, looking surprised at the suggestion. "It's not that. I was just thinking how heinous it is that someone would burgle a pet shop. I hope none of the animals were hurt during the break-in."

"Quite right," Remi said, though the thought hadn't immediately occurred to him. Perhaps he himself had become more jaded than he was aware of.

_Just my luck,_ he thought ruefully to himself. _A partner with steadfast morals. I wonder if I was so untiringly altruistic when I was his age? Ah, the nobility - and naivety - of unspoiled youth..._

Thus reminiscing to himself about his own cadet days, he led his young protégé through the wide, sunlit streets of central Brussels.

* * *

_* tintamarre - 'din' or 'uproar' in French._

* * *

_Author's note: a few necessary explanations._

_I chose to set this story in Brussels, Tintin's original home, though he has been transplanted to England in some versions. However, I'm leaving out the French references - e.g. using 'Mister' instead of 'Monsieur' - partly to remain consistent with the comic books, partly because my knowledge of the French language is non-existent. (In case you're wondering, I stumbled upon 'tintamarre' by pure chance, i.e. I typed 'tin' into an online dictionary and hoped for the best!) Please feel free to correct me if I get any French words wrong._

_Le Petit Vingtième was the newspaper that The Adventures of Tintin first appeared in, and it really was edited by Norbert Wallez._

_I have no idea what the internal staff structure or typical practices are at a newspaper office (I need to read more comics that feature scenes at the Daily Planet/Bugle), so I have fudged it. Sorry if I did it badly._

_Remi is, obviously, named for George Prosper Remi, aka Herg__è, Tintin's creator, who is often acknowledged as being Tintin's father, both literally and figuratively. I gave him a new first name, so as to avoid literally making his character a pastiche of __Herg__è, and to make the 'Tin-Tin' connection._

_From what I've read, 'Tin-tin' is a typical diminutive for names ending in '-tin' - Augustin, Martin, Valentin, etc. I know a few other authors around here have used 'Augustin' (which I gave to Remi), but I read an article somewhere that claimed Tintin's 'real name' was Martin. I kind of thought it suited him; I knew a red-headed girl in school whose surname was Martin. Tintin's surname here is completely my invention (created out of 'tintamarre'). His middle name is for __Herg__è's brother, Paul Remi, who was said to be a major inspiration for the character._

_By the way, I shall refer to the main character as 'Martin' throughout the story. Without spoiling anything, my intention is to make him earn his illustrious name as he goes about pursuing his first story, only becoming 'Tintin' near the end. Still, every time I write 'Martin', my fingers want to type 'Tintin', since I know that is who he really is. Please tell me if seeing the name 'Martin' in place of 'Tintin' gets too annoying, and I'll think about changing it._

_I'll try to post a new chapter soon, hope you enjoyed this first one! ~ W.J._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

The day was a fine one. The sun still lingered over the rooftops, though already shadows on the pavement were starting to lengthen.

The first few smartly-suited businessmen were beginning to make their way home from work, swinging briefcases and loosening ties, looking grateful to be released from servitude so early in the evening. Well-to-do women in modest dress leisurely browsed the shop windows; school children skipped ahead, calling to each other and sharing jokes, evidently glad to be done with their lessons.

It felt strange to Martin, to be starting his own working day when so many others were just finishing theirs. But he didn't complain; truth be told, he really wasn't bothered by it. _This is the life of a journalist,_ he reminded himself. _The news never stops happening; current affairs don't only take place between nine and five._

Remi continued to lead the way through the winding thoroughfares, Martin close at his heel. Though the experienced reporter was the one who knew this neighbourhood like the back of his notebook, they could both easily pick out their destination while they were still twenty paces from it.

In an otherwise pleasant residential street, a single shop had its front window boarded up. Jagged sheets of glass clung to the edge of the frame, as if a cannon ball had burst through its centre. The plaster façade bore deep cracks from ground to ceiling, and the door was battered in to one side.

"Great snakes," Martin murmured to himself.

"Where?" Remi asked, sharply. He'd had one hand on the doorknob, about to head inside; now he hurriedly drew back a step, eying the gaping window with a wary glance. He couldn't have been successful at his vocation if he didn't had a certain amount of backbone. He did not flinch at the sight of a raucous media scrum, was not squeamish when it came to covering unsavoury details, and had often interviewed police surgeons at the sites of violent crimes. Still, he had no love of reptiles.

"Oh, no... I d-didn't mean..." Martin stuttered. His face had coloured visibly. "I just... I was only surprised by... how much damage there is..."

Remi stared at him for a moment, a perplexed expression upon his face. Then he suddenly burst out laughing.

"'Great snakes?'" he repeated, gasping for breath between guffaws. "Who on earth says that?"

"The members of my scout brigade did," the boy said, bashfully looking aside as he scuffed the sole of his shoe against the pavement. He was mortified to be explaining something so personal - and so childish - to an adult whom he had only just met. "Our troupe leader used to forbid all forms of cussing. He said that such words were the language of sin, taught by the serpent to Adam and Eve as they were being forced from Eden. So whenever we were tempted to use strong language in front of him, we would stop ourselves by saying 'great snakes' instead. I guess the habit has stuck."

Remi was still chuckling immoderately. _Boy scouts?_ _Well, that explains a lot! _Aloud, he said: "Your troupe leader sounds like a very pious man. 'Great snakes', eh? A fine, inoffensive thing to exclaim - far better than some of the language I hear other young fellows use these days. Many lads would do well to take a page out of your book; though I expect that if everyone said it, it would soon come to be regarded as perverse."

"You're probably right," Martin agreed, his embarrassed flush gradually receding. As he spoke, he was examining the exterior of the shop. He tentatively poked the large crack that ran from the windowsill to the foot of the wall; as he did, a few fragments of pulverized brick crumbled away, and mortar dust poured from the broken render, making him hurriedly back away.

"What on earth could have made such a mess?" he asked, dusting off his grimy hands as best he could.

"A car, I should think," Remi replied, folding his arms and regarding the half-collapsed wall with a thoughtful gaze. "I have seen such things done before. The thieves use a sturdy vehicle to ram the shopfront, breaking down the door or smashing the windows in order to gain entrance, then fleeing with whatever cash they can lay hands on. Sometimes such tactics hide the presence of a crime, if the damage is deemed to be the result of a mere accident. However, this-" he waved a hand in the air, his gesture framing the battered building before them "-certainly looks as if it were deliberate."

He reached into his pocket, drawing out his notebook and pen. "I'll instruct you now, whilst we have time to organize ourselves," he said, in a business-like manner. He handed the writing implements to Martin, who hastily scrubbed his hands clean on his coat before taking them.

"When we go inside, I will interview the shopkeeper. I want you to stand close by and jot down key points from her answers. I have a fairly good memory, so I doubt I will have to rely too much on your notes, but it will be good practice for you. You must learn to quickly get to the central heart of a story, work out which details are most relevant to our readers' interests. You need to be able to sort through the facts, discern which matter most, which should be reported with greatest priority. You won't ever have enough column space to tell everything; so you must be economical and keep to the essentials. Once you've tried this method a few times, I'm sure you'll have the hang of it."

"Yes, sir," Martin said obediently. He flipped the book open to a blank page, the nib of his pen already hovering ready.

Seeing that he was prepared, Remi nodded approvingly, and pushed the door open. It swung grudgingly on its hinges, scraping against its own misshapen frame. A brass bell gave a forlorn tinkle above their heads.

In immediate answer, they were met with a series of ferocious barks, coming from somewhere close to their right.

With reactions quickened by experience in the field, Remi darted away from the site of the danger, backing into a large bag of birdseed in the process. Martin, acting just as swiftly thanks to the advantage of youth, flattened himself against the wall, narrowly avoiding getting his toe caught in the closing door, as he struggled to keep hold of the notebook he had nearly dropped in surprise.

A large crate stood just within the threshold, and something inside it growled hostilities at them. Exchanging worried glances, they gave it a wide berth.

The inside of the store was compact, yet densely cluttered with all manner of pet-related paraphernalia - including several pets themselves. Everywhere they looked, inquisitive eyes peered at them from within shadowy cages. Noses snuffled in their direction; a few curious chirps and squeaks greeted their arrival.

As they stood in the centre of the store, eyes adjusting to the dim light, looking for some sign of human life, a voice called from a backroom: "I'll be with you in just a moment!"

Soon after, a woman ambled through the doorway that led behind the counter, apparently to some kind of storeroom. She looked highly frazzled; her hair was falling out of the tight bun coiled at the nape of her neck, her sleeves were rolled up, and her dark-blue dress was covered with the same dust that Martin had dislodged from the wall outside. A pair of white mice rode on her shoulder, snugly nestled underneath her upturned collar.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," she said, in a weary voice. "I'm dreadfully sorry about the mess. We had a- erm, an _accident_ here this morning, and I haven't quite finished cleaning up yet. Was there something in particular that you...?"

"Yes, madam, as a matter of fact," Remi said, briskly. He did not raise an eyebrow at her appearance; in his line of work, he had interviewed all kinds. He addressed her with the same courtesy as he would a perfectly-coiffed socialite. "I'm with _Le Petit_ _Vingtième__. We spoke on the phone earlier."_

"Oh, yes-" Realization dawned on her face; she hastily reached up a hand and attempted to tidy her hair, almost dislodging the two mice in the process. "The reporter who called! Renè, was it...?"

"Remi, Mrs. Hubbard," he replied, without a hint of annoyance at her mistake. He handed her his card. "And this is our news cadet, Ma- er, Tintin." He hastily corrected himself, biting back a grin as he caught a glimpse of the name on the boy's press pass again. Martin raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing. Remi was pleased to note that his pen was moving; he appeared to be dutifully writing down the name of their interviewee.

"Mr. Remi. Yes, of course; I read your articles every day." She tucked the card into her pocket absently, looking more than a little harried. "I beg your pardon, sir. This whole incident has been quite upsetting-"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure it has," Remi said, soothingly. "I quite understand. The robbery occurred this morning, did it?"

"That's right, sir." Mrs. Hubbard leaned her elbows on the counter, settling herself in for a good, long chat; she seemed relieved to have someone to talk to. "I almost saw who it was, too - if I had been only a moment earlier! I was just coming up the street to open the shop, when I heard a tremendous crash. Of course, I didn't think it could be anything to do with my shop; just an accident of some sort. Young fellows will be so careless with their automobiles, driving too fast down these narrow lanes."

"I quite agree," Remi interposed, encouragingly. He knew how to best keep people at ease once they had begun talking - though Mrs Hubbard didn't seem to be needing too much encouragement. Martin's pen scritched rapidly across the paper; not deeming Mrs. Hubbard's opinion of road safety worthy of inclusion, he paused, ready to record whatever she said next.

"Yes, well, in this case I suppose they drove too well. They couldn't have tried much harder to do as much damage to my poor little shop as they possibly could. The cost of the necessary repairs - it will ruin me! And all for such a doubtful prize, when there is a jewellery store just up the street, and the metropolitan bank just beyond that! To think they would victimize an honest woman like me, who has never had any real need for security, other to keep the animals contained! These little creatures are the real victims here - to think the brutes would target them, yet take nothing from the till!"

Martin's pen stopped abruptly; his head shot up, eyes widened in surprise. Even Remi did a double-take at this last comment. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, politely.

"Why, yes, there was not so much as a franc missing," Mrs Hubbard rambled on; she seemed to be preoccupied with her own grievances, speaking as if they already knew exactly what she was talking about. "And yet, those poor little dears - defenceless, fragile, already half a world away from their homeland. I doubt the miscreants know how to properly care for them - what to feed them, when to let out for exercise. And the police have the nerve to claim they are mere 'collateral', not worthy of a full investigation! Of all the cheek! Both them and the rotten men who took my little darlings, I swear I will-"

But they never found out what Mrs Hubbard swore she would; for Remi - perhaps sensing that some expression a good deal less picturesque than 'great snakes' was about to follow - deftly interposed: "But what was taken, madam?"

Mrs Hubbard stared at him. "But of course, surely you know-? Something as dreadful as this, it must be common knowledge by now; the public must be made aware of the dreadful injustice has been done to the little dears." She drew herself up, looking suddenly formidable in her indignation, and gestured fiercely towards the wall behind Remi and Martin. "See for yourself," she said.

Mystified, the two reporters turned, and found themselves facing row upon row of empty cages. The bars in the front of each one had been neatly clipped out, leaving a hand-sized hole through which some small creature could easily pass.

"They came with wire cutters," Mrs Hubbard said, a hint of grudging admiration evident in her embittered tone. "And they drove a great, sturdy car, too, likely fitted in the rear with custom-built cages - easily big enough for ten, I'm sure. I saw them pack the last bird away just before they drove off; I was still half a block away when they sped away from the curb."

"Bird?" Martin repeated, speaking for the first time since they had entered the shop.

"Yes," Mrs Hubbard said, in a stricken tone. "They took every last one of our prized South American parrots - not a single one spared! And they have such finicky natures - if they are allowed to get too cold, or fed something they shouldn't, it could easily mean the death of them. I've been beside myself with worry all day!"

"How dreadful," Martin said, quietly. He seemed to have almost forgotten that he was there on the job; he suddenly came to himself and eyed Remi nervously. The senior reporter raised both eyebrows in askance, but otherwise allowed the boy's interruption. It certainly hadn't stopped Mrs Hubbard from continuing to talk volubly.

"Isn't it just, Mr Tintin?" she said, sniffing loudly as she blinked back tears. Remi hastily swallowed another smirk; it seemed as though 'Mr Tintin' had gotten his swift comeuppance for taking over his interview. Martin, however, didn't react. He was attentively listening to what Mrs Hubbard was saying, though his pen remained motionless.

"The one I'm most worried about is Alexandre," Mrs Hubbard went on, confidingly. "He's very sensitive - can't help but be, he's so smart. He's the pride of our collection, specially trained to repeat any voice he has heard. You can imagine what a drawcard it was with customers! All you had to do was say the command words 'ten-four', and he would 'record' whatever you said; he could remember it and repeat it, too, until he heard the same phrase again. I hold out little hope of getting such a fine fellow back. They'll have sold him to some collector now - or, I fear, some amateur bird-owner who won't treat him properly. Anyone would want him for a pet, he was very handsome - a beautiful red macaw. Look, there is one of his feathers, I recognize it from all the others. Such lovely, bright-coloured plumage!"

They looked down, noticing, for the first time, that the floor was littered with feathers. Martin bent, moving carefully so as not to disturb the multi-coloured carpet of down littered about their feet, and picked up a large, crimson feather.

At that moment, there was a thundering growl, making them all jump.

The terrible beast inside the crate by the door raised another resounding din. This one had its own percussion: beneath the furious barks, there was a series of loud thuds, and a harsh scraping sound, followed by an ominous rending of wood.

The side of the crate split open, and a white shape darted out, yapping menacingly as it dashed headlong towards them.

"Oh, no!" shrieked Mrs Hubbard, clutching at her head, causing even more wisps of hair to come out of their pins. "He's gotten loose! Come here, you bad dog! Catch him, please catch him!"

But they couldn't. As if he understood her words, the dog evaded their grasp even as they made their best efforts to grab hold of him. He weaved in and out of the store's shelves, circling back around them as he snapped and snarled at their ankles.

"Naughty dog!" Mrs Hubbard scolded him. She stretched out her arms and filled the narrow aisle he had dashed down, slowly backing him into a corner. Realizing he had nowhere to go, he sidled away from her, hackles raised.

"You disobedient little pet! Just wait until I get my hands on you-!"

She lunged for him; in the split-second gap before her hands closed on him, he flashed past her. Unable to stop herself, she faltered and pitched forward; only by slumping sideways did she just barely avoid ramming her head against the wall. One of the white mice lost its perch and sailed, squeaking frantically, in Remi's direction.

Feeling proud of himself, the dog scampered around the store, keeping well out of their reach. He sprung atop a large sack of kitty litter, eying them imperiously from this vantage point; he stood there, chest puffed out and tail erect, growling at them through his fluffy snout.

It was some kind of mid-sized terrier, covered in springy white fur, with two lop ears perked up attentively atop its head. It would have been cute, if it hadn't been grumbling menacingly at them from waist-height, glaring at them all in furious disdain.

"Dreadful little thing!" Mrs Hubbard gasped, righting herself and ineffectually smoothing down her hair. "He's an absolute menace! Once he gets loose-"

"Maybe I could try something," Martin said, keeping a wary distance away from the snarling dog as he reached into his coat pocket. He drew out a small paper packet, which he unwrapped to reveal a pile of saltine-crackers. Breaking one in half, he held out a piece to the dog. "Perhaps he'll accept a peace offering," he said hopefully, slowly approaching the dog with his treat outstretched.

The dog eyed him suspiciously, sniffing at the tidbit; it stretched out its neck full-length, hastily snatched it, and began to munch. It crunched up the biscuit, snuffled about for dropped fragments, then licked its chops, an almost gleeful expression upon its furry face. To the amazement of all present, its tail started to wag. It edged closer to Martin, sniffed at his hand, then began licking it insistently, demanding more of the same.

"There now, little fellow!" Martin laughed, feeding it another piece of biscuit. "It was just a matter of finding out what you liked!"

"Of course!" Mrs Hubbard said, clapping a hand to her forehead in self-reproach. "Why didn't I think of it before? I have some dog biscuits somewhere..."

She rummaged behind the counter, returning a few moments later with a handful of bone-shaped treats. The dog turned in her direction as she held one out, gave a delicate sniff, then returned to devouring Martin's snacks.

"Well, I never!" the woman exclaimed. "That dog has never gotten along with anyone - least of all me - yet he's taken a fast liking to you!"

"I think he just prefers my crackers," Martin replied, with a grin, as the dog, finishing a biscuit, proceeded to snuff at the sleeve of his coat, as if in the hope that more were hidden up there.

"And I think this little one would prefer to be with you, madam," Remi said, extending a hand; in it sat a little white mouse, blinking dazedly up at them all. It was soon reunited with the other riding on Mrs Hubbard's shoulder.

"Pardon me, sirs. I'm dreadfully sorry," Mrs Hubbard fluttered apologetically. She now looked even more over-wrought than she had before. "Those ruffians, they have turned the entire place upside down..." She heaved a great sigh, which sounded like it may have had a sob concealed within it.

Martin gave her a sympathetic look. "It must be very trying for you all," he said softly, patting the now-affectionate dog on the head. It tilted its head, offering its left ear for a good scratch.

"Yes." Mrs Hubbard sniffed loudly, but otherwise kept her composure. "This little tyke in particular is all out of sorts." She gestured at the dog, who was now investigating Martin's pockets with its nose, searching for more biscuits. "He was in a cage right by the door. It's a wonder he wasn't seriously injured, the car struck the enclosure hard enough to put a hole in it! That is why I had to put him in the crate, but he wasn't happy in there; you can see what he has done to it."

Indeed, the crate was now nothing more than wreckage; the plucky little dog had knocked one whole side right out of it.

"The break-in must have been a terrible shock to him," Mrs Hubbard went on, gazing at the dog with a doting expression, as if she had never cursed at it during their not-so-merry chase. "He growls at everyone who comes in, and until he ate those biscuits, he's been off his food. I thought that maybe he was sick."

"That's no good," Martin said, looking down at the dog, who was butting his head against the side of his coat. "He must have- hello, what's that?"

The dog kept nudging its head against him; every so often, it chewed loudly, though he had given it no more biscuits.

"A sign of stress, I suspect," Mrs Hubbard said, watching it anxiously.

"Perhaps," Martin said, frowning down at it. "But I thought I saw-"

He reached down, carefully, and seized the dog's head in his hand. It struggled for a moment, but he gripped it firmly by the scruff of its neck; it squirmed half-heartedly, then stood stiffly, its tail between its legs. With gentle fingers, Martin prodded directly at its jaws; the dog flinched, but he persisted, until he managed to dislodge something from the side of its snout.

He held it up to the light. It was a tiny scrap of fabric, mottled yellow and brown.

"This was wrapped around the poor chap's tooth," he said, showing it to the others. "No wonder he was so cranky, it must have ached terribly every time he went to eat!"

The dog certainly looked happier now; free from discomfort, it returned to its game of trying to poke its head into every one of Martin's pockets. He gave it another biscuit, which pleased it even more.

"My, my," Mrs Hubbard said, her voice filled with admiration. "You're very good with animals, Mr Tintin!"

Martin shrugged, looking characteristically modest. "My scout troupe used to volunteer at an animal shelter sometimes," he said. "I've had a bit of experience, that's all. And I like animals," he added, ruffling the dog's ears.

Remi looked at him in wonderment, while Mrs Hubbard's manner was by now close to adulation. "It certainly shows!" she declared. Then she added, with a beseeching look and a great deal of pleading in her voice: "I don't suppose you would like to take him off my hands for me? It would help me out a great deal if you could take care of him, for a little while at least."

"Me? Look after him?" Martin was astounded; he dropped the piece of biscuit he held on the floor, where the dog began to greedily lick up the pile of crumbs it had become. "Crumbs, I don't think I could-"

"It would take such a weight off my shoulders if you would," Mrs Hubbard said, in a coaxing tone; she looked incredibly tired again. "At least until I have a proper cage. I haven't any others that are big enough for him, and until I get a new one made, I have no other way to contain him. I often walk him around the neighbourhood, and he follows along next to me, calm as you please; he only acts like this because he thinks that everyone who comes into the store is another burglar. I'd take him home with me, but I've very little room, what with all the other animals I've had to move there. Besides, I keep several cats-"

At the word 'cats', the dog's ears pricked up, and it gave a low growl. Deeming it wise to still troubled waters before they became too rough, Martin hastily crammed another bit of biscuit in its mouth.

"Gosh, I'd love to," he said, looking wistfully at it; the dog was licking his hand again, as if it too was doing its best to convince him. "But I'm not sure if the building I live in allows us to keep pets..."

"Have you forgotten, lad?" Remi interrupted. He had been watching events unfold as a silent observer, a look of wry incredulousness upon his placid features; now he took charge of proceedings once again. "You are on the clock. If this little mutt can follow you around the newsroom without making a nuisance of himself, he could stay at our offices, for a time. We've had employees do it before, with special dispensation from Wallez; I'm sure we could make a similar arrangement again."

He reached down and gingerly petted the dog's head. It allowed it, sniffing curiously at his hand; then, evidently deciding that it should forge another alliance, it wagged its tail endearingly at him. "It's been a while since we've had a news-hound around the place," Remi added, smiling despite himself. _It would be rather good to have one again._

Martin looked as if all his Christmases had come at once; his eyes lit up with boyish glee. "Oh, could we?" he asked, with rapturous longing. He looked at Remi as if he were Saint Nicholas himself; he would have to have had a heart of stone to refuse after that.

"It would be very good of you if you could, sirs," Mrs Hubbard said, with relief clearly evident in her voice. "Just until his new cage is ready, mind. But then, if you like him well enough, it would be good to give him a permanent home." She gave the dog a pitying look. "He's a rare sort - a fox terrier by breed, but somehow he's come out pure white all over, with none of the usual brown patches that fox terriers have. Some folks like to buy a pet that's a bit unusual; unfortunately, most customers we've had in want their fox terrier to look like a fox terrier."

The dog eyed her mournfully, as if he understood her words. It gave a derisive-sounding snort.

Martin laughed. "I have no such qualms myself," he said, stroking the pup's thick, fleecy fur. "What's he called?"

"He hasn't got a name, sir." Mrs Hubbard gave a resigned sort of shrug. "At least, I've never found one that he'll answer to."

"Well, that's just something that we'll have to work on." Martin scratched the dog under the chin, then lifted it from its perch and set it down on the floor. It lingered close by his ankle, seemingly eager to follow its new carer. It was hard to believe that it had been set upon their attack just a few short minutes ago.

Remi and Mrs Hubbard had a few details to finalize for the former's article. Martin, finally remembering his duties, hastily jotted down these points while they spoke. Every so often, he glanced down at the dog and grinned at it; it seemed to grin back, wagging its tail gently whenever it caught his eye.

With the interview concluded, Mrs Hubbard shook Remi's hand, then Martin's. "I can't thank you enough," she said, thoroughly wringing his whole arm, her eyes bright. "It is such a great help to me; and most of all, to him." She inclined her head towards the dog, which was industriously scratching its ear; it was half-leaning against Martin as it did so, sending jolts up his leg, as if it were he himself who had the itch. "Bring him straight back tomorrow if he's any trouble-"

"I'm sure he won't be," Martin assured her. "Will you, boy?"

The dog gazed back at him, and yapped once, in what seemed a positive-sounding way.

"Good," Martin replied, with a grin.

"Ready to go, you two?" Remi asked, opening the door; the bell tinkled again, but this time, the dog didn't issue a peep.

"Yes, sir. Good-bye, Mrs Hubbard. I promise to take good care of him. Come along- er, Dog."

In the absence of a name, he didn't know what else to call it; he was relieved to see that it readily followed him nevertheless, its fleecy tuft of a tail waving eagerly in the air.

With a final wave to Mrs Hubbard, the two reporters stepped out of the shop and started back up the street. The dog trotted jauntily along between them, looking very satisfied with its present company.

* * *

_Author's note: Well, so enters Snowy! Though technically, he isn't Snowy yet; just as Martin has yet to properly become Tintin, Snowy hasn't been named , and it will take a few chapters before he is formally christened. In the meantime, I would like readers to suggest names that Martin can try on Snowy before settling on the inevitable choice. Write a review with your suggestion in it, I'll include as many as I can!_

_Sorry, in hindsight, I realize that the whole 'bird that records voices' trope is pulled straight out of 'The Broken Ear'. I must have been thinking of it subconsciously, and didn't even realize how directly I'd lifted it. This adventure, though, is quite different; for a start, it doesn't leave Brussels, so Martin and Remi are going nowhere near South America themselves. You'll just have to wait and see what kind of local mystery they end up unraveling!_

_If I may, I have a bit of shameless self-promotion to do. I've started a second Tintin story, a crossover with the Studio Ghibli film 'Kiki's Delivery Service'. If you like this story, please go check that one out as well!_

_Secondly, I'm a graphic designer, and in light of the earthquake crisis in Nepal, I drew a picture of Tintin and Snowy there, helping survivors. I am selling prints of the artwork, with the majority of funds raised going to Red Cross. You can purchase it by going to Etsy Dot Com and typing 'Tintin in Nepal' in the search box. Please spread the word, there was a second quake in Nepal today, they need all the aid they can get!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The day had become overcast by the time they stepped outside again.

Evening was fast approaching, driving ominous-looking clouds before it. Remi scowled at the grey sky overhead, keeping a tight hold on the scarf that an insistent breeze was trying to unwind from around his neck. More than that, he valued the typewriter and camera he carried in his bag; he certainly didn't want them rained on.

Though the way back to the office was familiar to him, he felt a strange sense of dislocation as he walked along the same old streets. He attributed it to the two unlikely companions he had by his side. In his time, he had worked with many junior reporters, had mentored many news cadets, each with their own peculiar habits and quirks.

But an escape-artist of a mutt, and a cadet who adopted stray animals ? Never, in his long career, had he been allied with such unlikely workmates as this.

As he walked, he appraised the pair with a sideways glance.

The dog ambled along in close proximity to his ankle, keeping its own pace. Every so often it ran ahead, giving chase after a squirrel or a pigeon that dared venture down onto the pavement, until its quarry invariably vanished up a tree or took to the air. Other times it hung back, snuffling interestedly at dropped crumbs, investigating open lids on dustbins. Despite these frequent diversions, it kept close by them, gambolling about their feet in a way that seemed to proclaim ownership of them. Remi couldn't help but smile at its antics, though he was rather chagrined to suddenly find himself the secondary caretaker of a very energetic little dog.

His co-worker had no such reservations. Martin was watching the dog's every move, an ecstatic grin spread wide across his face. He looked, to Remi's shrewd eye, more than a little besotted with it. He finally raised his glance from the pup scampering ahead of him, to find Remi watching him steadily. He hastily rearranged him features, managing to look apologetic - even rather guilty.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Remi," he said, with genuine remorse. "I really should have asked your permission before taking him, since looking after a dog will likely affect my work. I certainly don't want it to be a bother to you around the office. If I hadn't been asked on the spot, I would certainly have given it far more consideration. The newspaper must come first, of course, so if you want me to take him back-"

"No," Remi said, a little more hastily than he meant to, making the boy start and stare at him. He caught himself, realizing for the first time just how glad he was to have the lop-eared little creature alongside them. It was a distraction, no doubt; but a surprisingly welcome one. He rather liked dogs, and this one seemed to be a plucky little thing. "No," he said again, more matter-of-factly this time, "there's no need for that. I honestly don't mind having him along. He seems well-behaved, at least."

He watched the dog dash ahead and launch himself at a sparrow that was perched on a nearby lamp post; unable to reach it, he settled for yapping incessantly at it until it flew away, trotting back to them with an unmistakably smug look upon his face. Remi grinned, before adding: "I just hope this isn't going to happen on every one of our assignments. One little dog is fine, but I don't want to be dragging along a whole menagerie."

Martin smiled too, looking very much relieved. "That depends on how many pet store owners we interview - heaven forbid a story should take us to the zoo!"

"Hmph," Remi muttered, letting this bit of cheek slide. "I guess it also depends on how many biscuits you can carry. Lucky you had them on you."

Martin inclined his head in a demurring sort of way, patting his pocket; hearing a faint rustle of paper, the dog raised its head, looking hopeful. "Boy scout's motto: always be prepared. You never know when you might need a snack." He glanced up at the sky above; it seemed to be glowering back down at him. "At the moment, though, I think I'd rather an umbrella."

"You think it's likely to rain?" Remi asked, eying the bag slung over Martin's shoulder worriedly.

"I'm not sure; but in Scouts, they taught us to recognize different types of clouds. That big one there looks like a cumulonimbus, and when they form, it usually means th-"

A sudden gust of wind buffeted them; it was strong enough, and cold enough, to cut him off in mid-sentence. A moment later, an ominous rumble sounded overhead, and all at once heavy rain began to fall around them, as if a facet had been turned on directly over their heads.

"Quick, this way!" Remi shouted. He broke into a run, holding his collar closed with one hand, checking his casebook was safely tucked into his pocket with the other. He didn't look around, though the thud of footsteps and occasional splash of a puddle told him that the boy was following close behind. Given the scamper of paws and the few excited yips he heard on his other side, it seemed the dog was doing the same.

They dashed across a narrow lane, rounded the corner of a large brick guildhall, and hurtled down an alleyway. Martin obediently followed Remi's lead, trusting that he had a destination in mind. Sure enough, the senior reporter came to a stop beneath a wide awning that jutted out over a small antique shop. The store itself was closed, but the awning offered them adequate shelter.

"Alright there?" Remi asked, looking around at his colleague as he shook out the sodden lapels of his coat. It took an effort to peel his saturated collar away from the back of his neck; he felt as if he had just swum across the Bruxelles-Charleroi Canal.

"Yes, sir," Martin said, huddling under the awning beside him, blinking wet strands of red hair out of his eyes. He knew what his superior was really asking; as he ran, he had bundled the bag of equipment in the folds of his coat and held it close to his body, protecting it from the wet as best he could. He unwrapped it now; to the relief of them both, it was mostly dry.

"Good," Remi said, approvingly. _The lad may be idealistic and somewhat naive, but at least he's practical..._

"The dog!" Martin exclaimed, abruptly breaking in on his thoughts. "Where is the dog?!"

He craned his head around frantically, searching the dim alleyway for a flash of white fur. Remi did the same, rapidly becoming more than a little concerned; then he glanced downward, and laughed.

"There he is!" he said, pointing. Martin also looked down, and found a black nose poking out from beneath the hem of his coat. The dog had positioned itself squarely between his feet, using him as its own personal umbrella.

"Thank goodness!" Martin breathed a relieved sigh, patting the terrier's head with his free hand. It too was soaked; its thick white fur stood up in points, and the tips of its ears were dripping.

"Clever dog," Remi said, with a chuckle. Looking suddenly thoughtful, he added: "Are you going to give that clever mutt a name? It would be a bother if he ran off again and we had no way to call him back."

"You're right. I'd better come up with something as soon as possible." Martin looked down at the dog, frowning in concentration; it turned to face him, watching him expectantly. "How about... Rex?" he tried, experimentally. The dog looked unimpressed; it tilted its head at a disapproving angle. "I guess not. Well then, let's try... Rover? Max? Bailey? Bowser? Pero? Gus? Albus? Blanchet? Alvin? Emile? um... Fluffy?"

The dog did not appreciate any of these suggestions; it gave him a withering glare, snuffed in disgust, and drew its head beneath the hem of his coat.

Remi was by now doubled up with laughter; he tried to contain his mirth when he caught sight of the lad's disappointed face, only to quickly lose himself again. Martin wore a wry expression, though he too saw the humour in the situation. "I guess it'll take some time to find the right one," he said, mildly.

"It looks that way," Remi agreed, straightening again with one last hearty chuckle.

Turning his attention to more pressing matters, he attempted to wring out his waterlogged scarf; it now felt twice as heavy around his neck. Realizing just how soaked he was, Martin reached up and took off his sodden cap, fixing his hair in the reflection of the shop window. His quiff had been flattened against his head by the rain, but after running a hand through it a few times, it stood up quite straight again. He began feeling through his pockets, checking that none of his belongings - his watch, his notepad, his handkerchief - had been ruined by the damp.

As he dipped into his coat pocket, something - more than one something - unexpectedly brushed against his hand. With a puzzled frown, he pushed aside the crumpled biscuit wrapper - now empty, to the disappointment of the dog - and pulled out two things: a large red feather, and a scrap of yellow-brown fabric.

He blinked in surprise at them. He didn't remember putting them there; he must have distractedly stuffed them into his pocket when the dog had first broken free of its crate. As if to remind him of the incident, the dog, at the sight of these objects, made a low grumbling in its throat. Martin stared at it, then at the items in his hand. He took the feather and held it in front of the dog's face. It sniffed it once, then fastened its gaze on Martin's other hand, its hackles raised.

The boy examined the scrap of cloth carefully. It was the same fragment that he had disentangled from the dog's jaws; no wonder he hated it. He wondered how it got th-

Martin's head suddenly sprung up at attention, causing the dog to utter a surprised yelp. A thought had just occurred to him...

"Mr. Remi?" he said, his eyes never leaving the rag in his hand.

"Hmm?" Remi answered without bothering to turn around, trying - in vain - to brush some of the moisture from his hat.

"Have a look at this."

Remi did so, though he did not deign to touch the rag himself. Having examined it as asked, he wrinkled his nose in distaste. "You got that out of the dog's mouth, didn't you? Better get rid of it, it's not very sanitary to keep it around."

The dog, insulted, muttered a low protest which he alone understood. Martin looked at Remi as if he had just uttered something absurd. "Throw it away? But... it's evidence, isn't it?"

It was Remi's turn to stare incredulously at his cadet. "Evidence...? Whatever do you mean?"

"Well..." Martin began, slowly. He hadn't yet had time to put his hastily-formed theory into words; he carefully sought the best way to explain. "Well, that scrap of fabric was caught in the dog's mouth. Mrs Hubbard said that the dog's cage was right near the door when the robbers struck; so close to it, in fact, that their car put a hole in it. That was why the dog had to be transferred to the crate instead."

"Which didn't last long either," Remi remarked. The dog gave them a sheepish look; Remi couldn't tell if it was ashamed of the destruction it had wrought, or bashfully proud of its handiwork.

"Yes, well... If you look closely, this fabric appears to be tweed, with a yellow and brown checked pattern. But beside the brown... there is something here, at the edge, that looks like... well, like a few drops of _blood_..."

Remi, who had been reaching out for the rag to take a closer look, hastily recoiled. "Ugh. And your point is...?"

"My point is that... perhaps... the dog managed to bite one of the thieves during the robbery. It would explain why he reacted so strongly every time someone came into the store; he thought the robbers were coming back, and wanted another go at them. Just look at how he hates this bit of cloth."

Sure enough, the dog's ears were flat against its head in a doggy-glower, and it rumbled like thunder at the scrap in Martin's hand. Or perhaps it really was thunder; Remi couldn't quite tell, with the storm still roiling away overhead. He eyed his companion sceptically. "This is all mere speculation, lad. You don't know it for fact."

"But what if that _is_ what happened?" the boy pressed on, insistent. "This could be an important clue. If we take it to the police, they might be able to-"

"-arrest every man in Brussels who owns a yellow-checked suit?" Remi interrupted, his tone scathing. "I hardly think they would appreciate such a wild-goose chase, all over a little bit of cloth you got from a dog's mouth." Seeing how crestfallen the lad looked after his interruption, he quickly smiled and went on, as graciously as he could, "My dear boy, the police would laugh in your face. You do realize how unlikely it all sounds, don't you?"

"I suppose it does," Martin admitted, more than a little reluctantly. "But, I mean... it's _possible_, isn't it?"

"Certainly it's possible," Remi conceded, his tone a trifle impatient, "but even if it _is_ a piece of the robber's suit, it's not your place to go chasing it up. It's your job to _report_ the news, not go around making it up. We have all the data we need for a good, solid article. I'm sure they'll fit it in well before the financial report; I seem to recall having a few inches to spare on page 10. But we have neither the time nor the column space to go gadding about, playing detective. You can pester the police with your little fragment if you must, but I'm sure they will have many other leads by now. Let them do their job, and you stick to yours."

By now, the boy was looking at his shoes; the dog peered worriedly up from between them, whining softly. Worried that he had come down a bit too harshly, Remi clapped a hand on Martin's shoulder. "Don't get so invested in every case you cover, my boy. As a reporter, it's your job to write about other people's problems, and once you have the lines you need, that is where your interest in them has to end. You can't possibly solve every puzzle you come across, so don't even think of trying. Journalistic work requires a certain amount of objectivity and discretion; you're not being paid to unnecessarily stick your nose into other people's business, however well intended. I know you feel sorry for Mrs Hubbard and the other animals, but I'm sure the whole thing will be sorted out in no time."

Martin heaved a sigh and smiled thinly. "I hope it does. Sorry, Mr Remi. I just thought, if I could help-"

"Who knew that being in Scouts could make one so gallant?" Remi retorted; the boy managed to chuckle deprecatingly at that. "All's well, lad. Just keep your mind on your immediate duties. Did you get some good notes down back at the store? While we wait for this infernal rain to ease up, you can check them over. It looks like we'll have quite some time to pass here yet."

Martin nodded, meekly pulling the notebook back out of his pocket and flipping it open to the page he had last used. After a few moments' reflection, he took out his pen and began scribbling something down on the next line. Remi noticed that, before he began writing furiously, he replaced the feather and the tweed scrap carefully back in his coat pocket.

_Huh, _he muttered inwardly, sharing a grin with a strange wood-carved statue in the antique dealer's window. _Typical boy scout - guess he's not a litterer._

* * *

_Author's note: y'see, this is what I meant about the dog's name. Send in your suggestions - I'm already nearly out of ideas, so I could use some help coming up with more names! Have fun with it, I'll try to use as many as I can!_

_Also, for those wondering, yes, the wooden statue in the antique store window is an oblique reference to _'The Broken Ear_'. Probably not chronologically accurate, but I couldn't resist throwing it in!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"What a mess," Remi said, looking out at the streaming morass the evening had become.

It was ten minutes later, and they were back where they had started, outside the newspaper office. Beyond the front portico of the building, the rain fell steadily, showing no signs of letting up anytime soon.

After an impatient wait beneath the awning of the antique shop, Remi had decided that they should take their chances and run for it. He was actually relatively dry, his overcoat having borne the brunt of the downpour; but Martin, who had once again wrapped the bag of equipment in his own coat to protect it, was by now more than a little drenched. At Remi's words, he looked down ruefully at his outfit. All the care and consideration he had put into dressing for his first day of work had been quite literally washed away. His crisply-pressed shirt, which had been a cheery shade of yellow earlier in the day, was now soaked a sombre mustard, hanging limply on his slender frame. His trousers bore thick streaks of mud at each hem, almost from ankle to knee.

The dog did not help matters by shaking out its fur between them, showering them both with a fine spray. When they dared voice their displeasure, it gave them a haughty look, as if to say: _You would do it too, if you were able._

"At least I have a spare pullover in my bag," Martin said, shuffling his feet inside his sodden socks. He had tried his best to avoid the puddle-strewn gutter, but it hadn't made much difference.

"You certainly did come well-prepared," Remi said, with an ironic smile; it seemed this would become a running joke between them. He thoughtfully looked the boy up and down. "Still, you might as well go home, lad."

"Sir-?" Martin turned on him, eyes wide with alarm.

The reporter chuckled apologetically. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you; that was not your dismissal. I simply meant that you should go home for an hour or so, change clothes, have some dinner, feed that new pet of yours - all this dashing about must have given him the appetite of a Doberman." The dog eyed Remi favourably; it seemed to more than agree with this suggestion. "Take the opportunity to spend a bit of the evening with your family. You won't have the chance to do so again for a while after this. New recruits always work the late shift. You must first prove that your spelling and grammar are indeed far better than Emile's; only then will you be allowed to sleep at night."

Martin grinned at this. Though he was certainly eager to prove himself, he was grateful for Remi's suggestion. It had already been an eventful first afternoon on the job. He wouldn't mind a short reprieve; especially since he had some business close to home...

"Very well. I appreciate how generous you are being; I take it that this kind of leisurely pace won't come about too often."

"Not on my watch," Remi affirmed, without a hint of remorse. "Pass me the bag - no point running around in the wet with it any more than we already have - and the notebook too, please. While you dash home, I'll go over your notes, see how you fared at taking down shorthand. Once you get back, I'll show you how to go about drafting your first article."

He watched with approval as Martin beamed at the prospect: his first official article. It wouldn't have the boy's name on it just yet; however, it couldn't be denied that the new cadet had already contributed significantly to the fine profession of reportage. The dog at his heel was proof enough of that.

Martin handed over Remi's belongings. The reporter took them; then, as if he were paying a valet, passed him a ten-franc note in return. "Here, this is for taxi fare. Make sure you stay dry on the way home and back. That should cover it, I think; unless you live on the outskirts of Schaerbeek."

"N-no, I don't. Thank you." Martin took the proffered note, surprised. _To think that professional reporters could be so cavalier with expenses..._

"Don't look so impressed," Remi smiled, evidently reading his thoughts. "I'm not made of money, though our accounts department very nearly is. I can claim it back on business expenses, so don't be shy about taking it." He waved the lad towards the nearby taxi stand; its signpost was just visible through the teeming rain. "Now go on, be off with you. I expect you back within the hour, and the clock is already ticking. You'll probably have a hard time finding a cab that will take that wet mutt."

The dog huffed softly at him, unimpressed by this last remark; Martin, however, brushed it aside. "We will return punctually," he said, standing to attention in proper Scout style, "and I shall bring you back the change from the cab fare."

Remi snorted. "I doubt you'll have very much," he said, as he watched the dog trail a line of dainty paw prints along the rain-slicked pavement.

* * *

Once inside, Remi divested himself of his wet outer garments, lodged his recent expenditure with accounts; and then, seeing as his cadet wasn't back yet, brewed a pot of coffee in the break room himself.

"Shouldn't your new little shadow be doing that?"

Remi looked up to find Annalise leaning in the doorway, a heavy ledger propped against her hip. "Did he shrink in the rain, or get washed into a gutter? He certainly looked skinny enough to fit down a drainpipe."

"How uncharitable," Remi retorted, though he privately couldn't help agreeing with her - _boy scouts must teach these lads to live on fresh air alone!_ "He's safely out of the way, where he won't hear such remarks at his expense. I sent him home to get something to eat and change into dry clothes."

"Just like a good papa," Annalise commented, with a broad smirk.

Remi gave her the most dignified look he could muster. "He's a grown boy and can take care of himself, I'm sure. I have too many deadlines to be bothered with parenting."

"I suppose so. You do always treat your next article as if it were your own prized progeny."

"Quite right." For years Remi had been married to his work; he didn't deny it, nor did the fact bother him. Besides, Annalise's needling was alike enough to marital sparring to keep him from feeling too deprived. "If it so concerns you, I can hand the boy a note when he returns, telling his mother to feed him up a bit."

"Little good that would do," Annalise retorted, red lips curving up in the grin she reserved for those instances when she knew more about a story than any reporter on the floor; she tended to smile a lot. She flipped open the ledger, which she had been taking to personnel. "According to the forms he filled in, our lad has his own place of residence, no parent nor legal guardian currently listed. Quite the independant little soul, isn't he? No wonder he matched up so well with you, Papa Remi."

"Ha, ha," Remi muttered in response. Though his manner was outwardly sarcastic, his mind was rapidly processing what Annalise had told him. _Fourteen years old and already living alone?! Typical of today's youth - so eager to grow up!_

But was that really all it was? Remi wondered to himself, recalling Martin's comment about his age. What kind of boy didn't know his own birth date?

It was odd, just as so much else about the lad was odd. From the very beginning, this new cadet had struck Remi as one-of-a-kind; though just what kind that was, he couldn't yet begin to fathom. He was certainly quite different to the usual buttoned-up, over-coddled school-leaver that usually turned up at their doorstep, looking for an easy profession that wouldn't keep them tethered to a desk (how misguided they all were!). This description hardly applied to Martin. There was something singular about him, something subtler. Remi rather doubted that he was a spy, as Emile had so outlandishly suggested; yet there certainly seemed to be something irregular about him. He had something that Remi had seldom seen, despite his long and varied career, and never in one so young: a finely-honed social conscience, which could not be wholly attributed to Scouts alone.

_There's a story here,_ Remi thought to himself, as Annalise sashayed away, eager to retrieve her purse from her desk and head home for the night. _There's something about the lad that doesn't quite add up... almost a sort of mystery to him..._

He sighed and checked his watch. After all these years, he was starting to see everything as a potential headline. He had said it to Martin himself, just minutes earlier: the boy was hired to help write the news, not make it.

Though he wouldn't be doing even that much, unless he got back soon - his hour's break was very nearly up.

* * *

It had been an hour and twenty-three minutes. Remi impatiently tapped his pen against the edge of his desk, trying not to lose his temper.

_So much for Scouts,_ he muttered inwardly to himself. _Apparently there is no badge for turning up on time..._

He grimaced as he sipped his cup of coffee - just cool enough now to be no longer palatable - and flipped open the notebook on the desk in front of him. Martin's neat handwriting filled the page he turned to, succinctly stating the major points of Mrs Hubbard's statement. Though he had already read it about a dozen times during the past hour-and-a-half, Remi read it again, for no reason other than to pass the time. The lad had done a good job of it, he had to admit; a seasoned reporter couldn't have done much better.

Which made it all the more disappointing that he seemed to have bailed, dog and all, halfway through his first assignment. The allotted hour was well and truly up, yet there was no sign of his return. He had apparently taken the cab money and run.

Remi sighed, idly running his thumb over the edge of the book's pages. He stopped abruptly as it flipped over and fell open on a new page, half-filled by the same staid lines of boyish handwriting. Remi hadn't noticed this before; he had assumed that the notes from Mrs Hubbard's had finished on the previous page. Leaning forward, he peered down at the few brief lines penned there:

_Dog bite - needs treatment_  
_Evade police detection_  
_Facility furthest from crime scene_

Remi stared at it. This had nothing to do with Mrs Hubbard, surely. Was it about that infernal scrap of fabric, the one purportedly from a robber's suit? Was that what was keeping the boy right now? He could just picture Martin in some kind of holding cell, waving his fragment of yellow tweed in the air, while concerned police officers summoned the city asylum to come collect their newest patient. Remi had vaguely wondered whether such delusions would prove to be dangerous. _If the boy had gotten foolish thoughts of adventuring into his head..._

His musings were interrupted by the shrill peal of the telephone ringing at his elbow. Startled by the sudden clamour in the silence of the near-empty office, he came back to himself and lifted the receiver, trying to focus his mind on the task at hand.

"Office of _Le Petit Vingtieme_, Field Reporter Remi speaking."

"Mr Remi...?" said a familiar voice, only slightly distorted by the connection.

The reporter swung bolt-upright in his chair, nearly dropping the receiver in his surprise. "Martin?!" he gasped, hastily identifying the caller; he had expected the lad to return to the office in person, not via the phone line. "Martin, w-wh-... _How_ did you _get_ this number?!"

"You gave it to me, sir," came the steady reply from the other end of the line. "On your card, remember?"

So he had; he had completely forgotten about it. "I did, too." He forced himself to relax, leaning back in his chair again. "What is it, Martin? Already run out of money for the cab? If you have, I can only-"

"No, that's not- I mean, where I am now, I don't need it. The reason I'm calling is..."

It occurred to Remi, for the first time, that the boy was nearly whispering. There was a furtive note of urgency in his voice that Remi should have recognized right off; he had heard enough foreign correspondents in far-flung war zones use just such a tone. He had the sinking feeling that his cadet had somehow landed himself in some kind of dangerous situation.

"Where are you?" he asked, suddenly terse, all signs of levity gone in an instant.

"At the Saint-Michel Clinic," came the answer. Remi grunted to himself; he knew it, a small medical hospice halfway across town. "Mr Remi-" the voice changed now, from cautious to exultant "-I _found him_!"

"Found _who_?" Remi was feeling increasingly bewildered, and he didn't at all like what he was hearing.

"The robber! I thought I'd look for him at this clinic, since it is the farthest medical facility from the scene of the crime as one can get - and _I found him_!"

"Your man in the yellow suit?" Remi asked, with a sense of foreboding.

"Yes! It wasn't difficult at all! I just walked in, and he-"

"How on earth did you get past the nurses and staff?" Remi interrupted. _If their over-enthusiastic cadet had wandered into a hospital and unwittingly made a scene..._

"The dog helped me," Martin replied, as if this was the most natural statement in the world. Remi heard a soft snuffling in the background of the call. His heart sank.

"_You took the dog into a hospital_?!"

"Yes," came the chipper reply; Martin evidently had more patience than Remi did, as he calmly set about explaining. "It was the only way to make sure that the suspect was the right one. You saw how he reacted to the little piece of fabric. I knew that when we found the rest of the suit - and its owner - he'd be able to verify that we had the right man. And he did!"

He evidently patted the dog's head; there was a soft ruffling of fur, and a contented sigh.

"H-he did-"

Remi stopped before he completed that sentence. His voice was gradually rising; if he wasn't careful, he'd start yelling his exasperation down the line at the boy, who was clearly oblivious of his ire. He slowly counted to three before he spoke again. "Okay, wait, start at the beginning. You were on your way home, when you decided to visit the nearby hospital, to see if there were any yellow-suited men there who'd been bitten by dogs?"

"Well... yes," Martin admitted, a little sheepishly. "I had actually already been home, and was on my way back in... sorry, I should have been at the office well before now, it's very late-"

"And you found a yellow-suited man who'd been bitten by a dog?" Remi interposed. He didn't bother to mask his disbelief. It hardly mattered, since the boy ploughed on regardless, carried away by his enthusiasm.

"Yes, I did! It was a long-shot, I admit; but it was actually a lot easier than I thought it would be. All I had to do was tell the nurses that I was looking for a friend who had been injured and that I was worried about him, I hadn't seen him since, he might be unconscious and alone in a hospital somewhere. I told them that he was last seen wearing a yellow suit, and he'd sustained a dog bite-"

"-with the dog in question _beside you the_ _whole time_?" Remi asked this in a voice that was almost a monotone; he couldn't register much more amazement than he already had.

"Yes, but I told them that it wasn't this little fellow. 'Don't worry, he's very friendly,' I said, and they all gather round to pat him. He even licked a few of them - which they didn't mind at all, they just laughed and patted him some more - so it wasn't really a lie. Well, not much of one."

Remi couldn't help but smile as he pictured the little dog charming a room full of nurses. He also couldn't help but admire how brazenly the boy had used a well-placed falsehood to follow up a story. His less-scrupulous professional self silently applauded; however, the responsible side of him stopped short of lauding the boy out loud.

"And they had a patient who matched your description?"

"Yes. He was admitted just after noon today, which matches up well with the time of the robbery. The nurses said he came in feeling woozy, with light puncture wounds on his arm, consistent with a dog bite. The sleeve of his suit had a tear in it; that's why they remembered it when I asked, the colour of it was distinctive. They showed me in and here he was, laid out in a bed, with the jacket of his suit folded up by his bedside - a perfect match! And the dog wouldn't stop growling at him, I had to leave the room quickly in case it woke-"

"Where is he now?" Remi interrupted again, his heart rate spiking rapidly. It was all well and good to play at detective, but there really was a man with a dog-bite nearby. Even if he was completely innocent, Remi doubted he would take kindly to such an accusation...

"Still asleep, last I saw, and I doubt he'll come round anytime soon. He was in a pretty bad way when he first turned up, the nurses said; they insisted he stay for observation, though he was reluctant to. He's been conked out in his bed ever since. What should we do about him, Mr Remi? We should act before he wakes up, don't you think? Once he's discharged, we'll have a hard time catching him. Once I've rung off, I'll call the police, and th-"

But he never found out what Martin intended to do after that, for he abruptly stopped talking in mid-sentence. Remi heard him give a cry of surprise that sounded distant, farther away from the phone's receiver. It was followed a moment later by a snarl; Remi thought at first that it was the dog, then hastily realized that it sounded vaguely human.

"Martin?"

There was no reply; if there was, it was drowned out by the dog's frantic barking. Beneath it, Remi could just make out the sounds of a struggle. There was a series of scuffles and dull thuds, like furniture overturning, and slaps which could have been blows striking flesh. He could hear Martin's voice raised in some kind of protest; the same hostile man's voice answered it with what was undoubtedly a wordless threat.

There was a loud thump. Martin's voice uttered a groan. The dog stopped barking, instead giving a tragic whine.

"Martin?! MARTIN!"

There was no immediate reply. Remi strained his hearing for any sign of his cadet, his heart thudding in his throat. After a moment, he heard what sounded like a muttered curse, followed by the approach of heavy footsteps.

"Martin...?"

No, it wasn't Martin. Remi heard a snatch of harsh breath, and a soft clink as the receiver, which must have fallen on the floor, was picked up. Then the line went dead.

"Martin! MARTIN! M-"

It took a moment for Remi to realize that he was shouting at an unresponsive phone. He had heard it all with such immediacy, he had nearly forgotten that he wasn't actually there. He had heard the conflict between the two men, and Martin's cry, and the villain's curse, as if it were all happening right here in this very room. But it had all been occurring across town, far from here, far from help... and even now, Martin could be-

Remi dropped the receiver without bothering to replace it in its cradle. Two strides took him to the hat rack; he scooped up his bag and coat, more out of practice than any conscious thought, stuffing his scarf and hat into his pocket as he strode for the door. The remaining workers all looked askance at him - they had heard a lot of shouting coming from his office - but he didn't look left or right as he sprinted across the floor and out through reception.

It was still raining outside. Remi hadn't bothered to put his coat on, and he was getting soaked, but he didn't notice. He blinked rivulets of water from his eyes, searching the street desperately for the sight of an unengaged cab. He saw one coming and flagged it down; when it didn't appear to be slowing, he leapt from the curb, forcing it to grind to a shuddery stop a mere foot shy of him. Remi wrenched the door open as soon as it was stationary.

"Zooks, mate, you scared me half to death! Sorry, you may have places to go, but I'm not on duty anymore, just clocked off for the night. You pop round the corner to the taxi stand, I'm sure you'll find someone t-"

"Saint-Michel clinic, please," Remi cut him off, already hauling himself half-in over the footplate. "It's an emergency, " he added, almost pleadingly.

The cabbie looked him up and down, noting the coat hanging limply over his rain-drenched shoulder, the haggard set about his features, the white-knuckled hand clenched nervously on the door handle. He looked Remi straight in the eye, nodded once, and said: "Right away, sir. I'll make the best time I possibly can."

Uttering a quick word of thanks, Remi climbed in and slammed the door. No sooner had he done so then the cab sped away, weaving purposefully in and out of the slow-moving after-work traffic. Usually, Remi would have been clinging to the handrail, cursing the driver's lack of regard for road safety. Now, he silently begged him to pick up the pace, painfully aware of every minute that ticked by.

"Not hurt, are you, mate?" the cabbie asked, turning away from the road for a moment to eye Remi with concern.

The reporter started at the question, preoccupied as he was. "N-no, I'm fine. It's... a friend of mine..."

The cabbie nodded grimly. "Worst night for this sort of thing to happen; roads are slow in the wet. Just sit tight, sir, and I'll have you there in a jiffy - or the nearest to a jiffy I can manage in all this." He put on the brakes as a line of motorcars blocked the way ahead of them. He swatted the steering wheel in frustration, backed up a bit, then veered down a nearby alleyway. Circumventing the block, he managed to put them back on relatively clear road.

Feeling slightly reassured, Remi took the opportunity to properly put on his coat and scarf. He sat on the cab's worn seat, nervously twisting his hat in his hands, all along the drive to Saint-Michel's. With every street corner and intersection they passed, more and more possibilities were forming in his mind, each more terrible than the last.

For all that Martin was an odd sort, he had come to rather like their newest cadet. He sincerely hoped that the lad's first day on the job wouldn't also be his last.

* * *

_Author's note: so, I hope early paragraphs explain just what Martin is wearing - a bit different from the blue pullover and plus-fours! I chose to use 'pullover' instead of 'sweater' or 'jumper', it seemed like the most likely European terminology. The things you have to think of when you write a story!_

_Please don't ask me why the cab driver speaks like Sir Percy Blakeney. I have no idea what Belgian cabbies sound like; and since all cabbies are vaguely related to London cabbies_ _in my mind, he came out sounding pseudo-British._

_Sorry to leave it at that point, I'll try to get started on the next chapter soon! ~ W.J._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

The rain had stopped by the time the taxi drew up outside the Saint-Michel Clinic.

Remi had already gathered his belongings and donned his hat several blocks beforehand. Now he hurriedly rifled through his wallet, extracting a crisp note, which he pressed into the outstretched hand of the cabbie before the man could even state the amount of the fare.

"Keep the change," he muttered brusquely, ignoring the driver's startled squawk of protest. Without further ado, he flung the door open and slipped out into the street.

He very nearly stepped straight in front of an on-coming car.

A large sedan had crossed to the wrong side of the road in order to pass them, very nearly mowing him down. Luckily, Remi's survival instincts were running full-tilt; he managed to flatten himself against the side of the cab just in time. A spray of water from the other car's waving wipers spattered against his cheek. Something dark stuck to its windshield, a dead leaf perhaps, blew free and fluttered past his head to land in the gutter. The car didn't check its speed, but hurtled away up the street, tyres screeching on the wet asphalt.

"Ruddy lunatic!" the cab driver called after the blaze of brake-lights that was rapidly fading into the night, shaking his head in disdain. "Watch yourself, sir, or you might end up the one who needs a hospital!"

Remi didn't hear his warning. He had already slammed the car door behind him, strode across the street (after a cursory glance), and was taking the front stairs of the clinic two at a time.

* * *

"You were very lucky, young man."

The stern-faced doctor regarded his patient over the top of his clipboard, half-moon glasses gleaming reproachfully in the harsh overhead lamp. "If you'd hit your head on the floor as you went down, it would have been lights out for you. Luckily the blunt-force trauma from the blow of a fist was only enough to unbalance you, not break your skull open."

Martin grinned ruefully at his words."It's lucky I've always been hard-headed," he quipped, rubbing his scalp with a slight wince. Beside him, Remi gave a half-splutter of exasperation.

The doctor turned his steely gaze on him. "He could still have a concussion," he warned, in strident tones. "He should stay here for another hour at least, for observation. We can't have him running about when he may have sustained worse damage than is apparent. Keep him here for as long as you can, watch him carefully; if he feels faint or starts to lose consciousness, call a nurse immediately. It would also be wise to talk to him frequently, ask him simple questions in order to keep his mind focused and his senses alert. I trust," he went on, with a sardonic lift of his severe eyebrows, "that you will treat him far better than his other 'friend' did."

"Of course," Remi replied shortly, bristling at the implication. "The other man was a menace, barely an acquaintance; certainly not worthy of my young friend's time. I happen to be his co-worker, and we look out for each other at _Le Vingt_ \- mostly," he quickly added, wondering whether the boy's injury might be some kind of comeuppance for the blow that had been dealt to Emile earlier.

The doctor pursed his lips but said no more, darting away up the hall with a business-like tread, possibly to lecture some other poor unfortunate. He had been far from impressed, and Remi frankly didn't blame him. He doubted any of the hospital staff much appreciated their charges creating more patients for them by beating up those who came to visit.

As the physician sped away, Martin relaxed, slumping in his seat. They were in a waiting area of sorts, sitting on the hard-backed chairs that lined the main hall of the clinic's general ward.

"Thank you for covering for me," he said, eying Remi gratefully; they had continued the charade that the boy's assailant had been an injured friend who lashed out at him in confusion. "You really d-"

"I told the exact truth," Remi interrupted, speaking more harshly than he meant to. "That man wasn't worthy of your time; nor is this escapade worth any of mine. We could have had the story comfortably done by now, snug in our safe little office. Instead, you stuck your nose where it didn't belong and brought a fistful of trouble down on both of us. If this is the way you intend to behave on the job, don't expect to be working with us for very much longer."

He stopped, eyes flashing wrathfully, and hastily checked himself. The boy, who had boldly faced a bully and fearlessly pursued a criminal, was easily cowed by his colleague. He stared shame-facedly at the floor, not daring to meet Remi's gaze. The corners of his eyes glimmered with what might have been tears. The dog, sitting at his feet, whined softly and licked his hand.

Remi rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly remorseful. He had let his worry get the better of him; he was still severely ruffled by his cross-town dash, and had taken out his frustrations on the poor victim of the affair who, even if he was somewhat misguided, had only been acting in the right.

"Have you had anything to eat yet, lad?" he asked, in a gruff voice which somehow betrayed his concern more plainly than he had intended.

"A little," Martin replied; with his head still down, he appeared to be addressing his words to his own knees. "I had an apple back at the flat, while I was getting ready. And I put another paper of biscuits in my- oh."

As he spoke, he dug a rustling packet out his coat pocket, identical to the last. A slight shake and a pattering of crumbs was enough to tell them that the crackers inside had been reduced to rubble.

"I must have landed on it when I fell," he said, in a very low voice.

The dog, which had been looking downcast, perked up; it licked its chops, tail wagging frantically.

"You had better save those for your little friend," Remi said, a reluctant half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He got slowly to his feet, towering over the lad in an authoritive, yet protective sort of way. "I will see if I can find any real food in this place. After everything you have been through, you need to rebuild your strength."

Though Martin was hardly very hungry - in fact, he felt slightly nauseous at the mere thought of trying to eat anything - Remi's tone brooked no argument.

Asking a nurse for directions, Remi soon found the tiny kitchen that served the hospital's patients. After a quick consultation with the matron on what nourishing fare might be best for a convalescing boy, he returned with two fresh white rolls stuffed with stewed beef, onions and cheese; two mugs of very strong, sugary milk tea; and a long, strangely-shaped paper parcel tucked under his arm which, when unwrapped, revealed a very large bone.

Martin frowned, as the dog gazed at it ecstatically. "I don't know if dogs should be given dirty old bones," he said; the dog, salivating and desperately begging in front of Remi, pointedly ignored him. "It doesn't seem very wholesome."

"I can vouch for the cleanliness of this one," Remi retorted. "The matron assures me that it came out of yesterday's soup, and you can't find tasty food for dogs better-washed than that." He set the bone down on top of the paper of biscuits. The dog gleefully set about devouring its feast, while the two reporters ate their meal in a more sedate fashion.

Remi regarded his companion with a sidelong glance. At first, Martin baulked at the food, barely able to choke down a mouthful; however, after a few resolute bites, he seemed to find his appetite, and began to eat with the gusto one would expect of an adolescent boy.

Remi was glad of it. Turning his attention to his own roll, he chewed thoughtfully. He couldn't shake the paternal concern that the whole affair had sparked in him, strengthened by something the kitchen matron had said when he explained his errand to her.

"Such a good papa," she had complimented him, and though he had opened his mouth to protest, he had ended up closing it again, finding neither the energy nor the inclination to bother correcting her. It riled him to think that it was so similar to Annalise's teasing; but then, her words had provoked ideas of their own. Was there no one else to watch over the boy with fatherly concern? Perhaps that was why he ran amok with such abandon.

If their new cadet had reason for acting out in this reckless manner, he wanted to know about it - as good as Martin was at his office duties, Remi couldn't have him become a liability out in the field.

As he finished his well-earned meal, the reporter silently formulated a line of questioning, resolving to go about it as tactfully as he could.

"The doctor said I should ask you things," he said, casually brushing stray crumbs from his coat, "in case you have a concussion. Do you mind if I start?"

Martin swallowed the last morsel of his roll, washing it down with a large swig of tea. "Fire away," he said, cheerfully.

Remi was faintly amazed by how quickly he had bounced back; for all the _joie de vivre_ with which he sipped from his mug, they might be sitting around a fire at Christmas. Acutely feeling his age, he cleared his throat and began.

"What is your name?"

"Martin Paul Delamarre," the boy replied, with alacrity.

"What is your _non de plume_?"

"Tintin," he answered, pulling a face.

Remi allowed himself a grin, before stating his next question. "How old are you?"

"Fourteen years - to the best of my knowledge."

"Who is your worst enemy?"

Martin had to think for a moment, smiling wryly. "Emile, I suppose - though I wish him no ill will, we simply got off on the wrong foot. So no, I guess my enemy is..." He gingerly touched his aching head. "...the man who hit me. Whoever he is."

This answer stoked Remi's temper again, though he had been expecting it. He pushed all of these minor queries aside; they were irrelevant. Using his skill in reportage, he had been gradually prodding at his subject's defences, slowly putting him at ease, preparing to strike. Now he launched the question that he had been secretly working up to.

"Who is your closest family?"

There was silence. The boy nursed his teacup, shifting it nervously in his hands. Remi waited patiently, slowly counting to ten; when he still got no reply, he gently probed a little further. "I mean 'close', in either sense of the word. You need someone nearby to watch you tonight, in case your condition takes a turn for the worst; and your family should be notified of your injury, wherever they are. Is there somebody I can telephone for you - your parents, another relatives, perhaps a family friend...?"

He trailed off, waiting expectantly. After a minute, the boy raised his head, a surprisingly bright smile upon his face.

"I don't mean to be evasive," he said, apologetically. "But the truth is... there isn't anyone."

"...isn't anyone?" Remi repeated, slowly; he only sounded half-convinced.

"No. I'm not lying," he added, correctly interpreting Remi's doubts. "There is no one I know in Brussels, and only a few elsewhere who could be loosely termed as 'guardians', though their role as such is quite done with by now. There is the director of the orphanage I stayed at, who has the concerns of many others to attend to without having to worry about me any longer; and the leader of my scout troupe, who has done so much for me already, I wouldn't want to bother him with all this. Oh, I suppose there is my landlady here in town; but she's more like my neighbour than my housekeeper, and she's away visiting her cousin in Majorca at present. So no, there really isn't anyone."

Given the frankness of his manner, Remi had to believe him; he had faced enough liars to know that the boy was telling the truth. Still, he could hardly believe it - _surely orphans who were left all alone in the world didn't exist anywhere but in a Dickens novel nowadays?_

Martin seemed to feel the inquisitive look that was focused upon him. "I suppose you want to know all about it," he conceded, with something like resignation. "You're a reporter - it's your job to find things out."

"I don't mean to pry," Remi quickly assured him; he didn't want his cadet to think he was a mere professional busy-body, like those deplorable mud-rakers at _Paris Flash_. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to; but, as your employer, I am responsible for you, and I feel as if I know next to nothing about you."

Martin shrugged modestly. "There isn't that much to know. Do you really want me to tell you about my family background? I don't particularly mind, but it makes for a pretty boring article."

"This will stay strictly off the record," Remi replied, gravely, as if he were conducting an official interview. Then he said, in a lighter tone, "I would be interested to hear it. After all, the doctor told me to keep you here and keep you talking. We've earned ourselves another hour's break; it would help to fill in the time."

Martin grinned ruefully at that. "Well, in that case. It's nothing I'm ashamed of, and I don't want you to feel sorry for me. It's just things that have happened in my life." He paused for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts; then he began.

"My parents were foreign diplomats. They travelled a lot for their work; in fact, they were required to visit the Belgian Congo soon after I was born. I was to accompany them there, but I came down with a slight illness - nothing really threatening, a cold or something similar - just before the scheduled departure. So I was left behind with a nurse, who was to bring me along to join them once I had recovered. Soon after they arrived, they were on a passenger train that derailed while travelling from Tanzania to Ruanda-Urundi. They lost their lives in the incident, along with the thirty-two other Belgian nationals who were also on board."

He stated all this dispassionately, as if he were simply reeling off statistics. Remi realized that he must have told this story before, in a similar fashion; he was only so comfortable telling it because he had had a lifetime to come to terms with it, however relatively short his fourteen-or-so years had really been.

"I had no assigned guardians, and no other family to speak of; my nurse already had children of her own and couldn't take in another. So, for the first few years of my life, I was raised in several different foster homes. They were all very nice people, and they all meant very well; but because they were mostly friends of my parents, they also worked in the foreign ministry, and also had to travel a lot. It was agreed between them that I should not be taken out of the country of my birth; so every time one of them had to leave Belgium, I was sent elsewhere, only for the same thing to happen over and over again. Over the course of a decade, I was shunted from one place to another countless times. It was very trying," he admitted, heaving a small sigh at the memory. "I was quite well-cared for, but I had no stability. Just as I got settled into one home, I would be moved to another, and I never knew where I would end up next."

"That would be very upsetting for a child," Remi assured him, encouragingly.

Martin nodded, grateful for the commiseration. "It was. I had nothing much else to complain of, yet I wasn't really happy. The only thing I really enjoyed was Boy Scouts." He smiled broadly, suddenly looking his tender years, in all their naiveté. "It was the one constant in my life, something I knew I could always look forward to, wherever - and with whomever - I happened to be living. I suppose I liked to feel like I was part of something bigger than myself; the rest of the time, I was on my own, for all I was surrounded by different families. In Scouts, we felt more like a united front, I truly had a sense of belonging there.

"I can't thank my troupe leader enough. He noticed the positive effect it had on me, and suggested I go to live at the nearby orphanage, where a lot of the other Scouts were from. My foster families were worried at first, but they assured me I could try it out, and come back to them if I wasn't happy. Well, I was _very_ happy there. For the first time, I arrived at a place knowing I wouldn't have to leave it suddenly, and I had all the other boys there for company - some would leave every so often, to be adopted by families or seek out work when they came of age, but I would still see many of them at Scouts every week. We had such fun together, and learned so many useful things - survival skills, orienteering, boxing-"

"Ah," Remi interrupted, "that's where the mean right hook that felled Emile comes from."

Martin nodded assent, allowing himself a small, self-deprecating smile. "Well, when I finished school, I decided I wanted to be a journalist. I knew there were more opportunities to find such work in the city. I am not destitute; my parents left me a comfortable sum of money in their will, and each month I have access to enough allowance to afford rent on a small flat-"

"You really do live all on your own, at your age?" Remi interposed; he couldn't quite hide the surprise and disapproval in his voice.

"Yes. It really is no big matter," Martin demurred, with a shrug. "I have been alone all my life, even when I have been surrounded by others. Living in the city is not so very different. Besides, I had never had a place that I could entirely call my own before. I like my flat - though I must admit, I am already looking for a new one. One that will let me keep pets; and preferably one that is closer to the office, so you won't have to pay cab fees for me all the time."

They shared a companionable smile at that. The dog snuffed heartily in agreement; on both points, but mostly for the first.

"But really," Martin went on, "it doesn't matter that much, I suppose. I want to become a proper journalist and travel the world, chasing stories all over the globe. I doubt I'll spend very much time in any apartment I have here in Brussels; I just need somewhere I can come back to every now and then. Anyway, once I decided I wanted to be a reporter, I discussed my options with my guardians. I was lucky; my scout leader was acquainted with Mr. Wallez, and he arranged a cadetship for me. The rest, as they say, is history."

Having finished his story, he raised his mug and tilted it back for the last mouthful of tea.

Remi did the same, then absently toyed with his empty cup, considering all he had just heard. He was not so hardened by experience that he didn't feel the tragedy of the tale, however matter-of-factly it had been told. Despite Martin's calm demeanour, he himself felt like he had passed through several harrowing moments of loss and hardship. He now had far more insight into his cadet, which was what he had wanted. That was his stubborn, independant streak; the beyond-his-years capability, all explained right there. Still, there was one nagging question that he didn't yet know the answer to.

"What I don't understand," he said, "is why you are so keen to take up this profession over any other. It has a few perks, assuredly; but I can't say I see why it has a particular appeal for you. Is it because your parents were such avid travellers? Do you wish to become a foreign correspondent, in order to emulate them in some way?"

Martin put his mug down on the floor. The dog dipped its snout into it, and was disappointed to find it empty. He reached over and filled it from a jug of water on a nearby table; it began to lap at it eagerly.

"I guess that is part of it," he admitted, after those few moments' consideration. "I've never really travelled anywhere, save here to Brussels. With all the coming and going my foster-families did, I am curious to find out what the appeal is; I would be very glad to go abroad myself, to see what I've been missing out on."

"Huh," Remi muttered; he had expected as much.

"But it's not just that," Martin added quickly, worried that he had been mistaken as simply ambitious or vain-glorious. "I suppose the real motivation is something I found out a few months ago, before I arrived in the city to stay."

"Oh?" Remi enquired. He felt like he was finally striking at the heart of the matter; his fact-finding instincts told him so.

"Yes. You see, once I came of age, I wanted to find out more about my family situation. Most of the necessary documents - passports, marriage license, birth certificate and such - were lost in the train wreck, so I had very little to go on. I wrote to many of my parents' old friends - those that I could manage to track from abroad, at any rate - and found out from them a lot about how they lived. But I also wanted to know how they died, something that these acquaintances either weren't able, or weren't willing, to tell me.

"So, earlier in the year, I came to Brussels for the first time, to look through the collection of newspaper archives at the city library. I found an article written by a foreign correspondent - for a different paper," he hastily clarified, making Remi raise a curious eyebrow "-that briefly reported on the accident and its casualties. It didn't tell me much that I didn't already know, but it stated the name of a witness who had been working on the Congolese rail line at the time. Since it was the only lead I had, I looked up that gentleman, and found that he was living in Brussels. I arranged to visit him, and this is what I learned."

He learned forward, looking Remi straight in the eye, suddenly very earnest. The reporter, who had been marvelling at the lad's natural investigative skill, had no idea what he was about to impart.

"The article had extensively covered the deaths of the thirty-four Belgian delegates. What it didn't say was that many Africans also perished in the same incident. The Brussels-based newspaper didn't see fit to give that fact column space. It reported the loss of our own citizens, and dismissed all the others. All eighty-six of them.

"I couldn't believe it when that railway-worker told me about it. He was very glad to tell it all to me; he had wanted someone besides himself and his colleagues to finally know about it. After all these years, it had become some kind of scandalous secret, when he felt it should have been common knowledge from the start. He tried to tell the papers about the other victims, at the time; but they brushed it aside, edited out anything that he said about them. Afterwards he read all the local and international bulletins, waiting for something to be said about them; but it never was. Those eighty-six people simply ceased to exist."

His brow furrowed as he spoke; he averted his gaze and stared at the floor again, though his voice lost none of its strength.

"There were so many of them, and they were people too, just like any of us - women and children, some of them - who died in just the same way as the foreign nationals. Yet they were completely overlooked by our press. All those people had families of their own - they were someone else's parents, someone else's children. If I had been born in Africa instead of Belgium, to an African family in place of my own, it could have very well been me, or my parents, who were left out of the pages, lost forever, their deaths unmentioned and meaningless. All because they seemingly had nothing to do with our national interests. And also, to give them any attention would make the incident seem far worse, dissuading our people from visiting the colonies; the loss of profits generated by inter-continental travel would have been a terrible blow to the financially-secure bureaucrats who held office at the time. And the newspapers were very eager to please those who were in positions of authority."

His tone had been steadily gaining in vehemence. Remi was rather startled by the drastic change the lad had undergone, the incredible conviction that lay behind his impassioned words. He himself, with his years of experience covering political affairs, well knew how close to the truth Martin's assessment probably was; but he would hardly have credited such an astute guess to the same idealistic boy of two hours ago. He had no idea that such fires burned behind the mild-mannered, amiable exterior that faced him.

"I suppose I felt a kind of kindred spirit with them," Martin went on, "those eighty-six people, and the families they left behind. People like me who had lost someone near to them, in just the same way. Yet they weren't treated the same. Those thirty-four Belgian citizens - my parents included - were at least laid to rest with some sort of acknowledgement. Why should those eighty-six others be given any less respect, just because some hack reporter sitting in an office hundreds of miles away decided that they weren't worthy? Then I started to wonder how many times this had happened before, in other parts of the world, in other situations - how many people, suffering in silence, have been dismissed by the media in much the same way."

He frowned fitfully at the floor, his fist clenched, as if he meant to strike down the offending journalists, just as he had done to Emile.

"I made up my mind then and there; I resolved to become a reporter myself, so that I could write and publish the exact truth, make sure no one was ever left out or disregarded ever again. That is the real reason why I want to be a journalist: because everyone deserves to have access to the truth, and to have their truth told, whoever they are or whatever circumstances they are born into. I want to be a better journalist than any other - one who keeps his integrity, reports nothing but the whole truth, no matter how unpleasant it may be, or unfashionable, or even how unprofitable. I don't care if being a reporter makes me famous, or earns large paychecks, or takes me all over the globe; I just want to do my best to make sure that everyone who needs a voice has one, no matter how forgotten or downtrodden they are. I feel I owe it to everyone who isn't able to speak up for themselves."

They sat quietly after he had finished talking. Remi didn't say anything, simply taking it all in.

He understood now why their cadet had refused to back down from false allegations of spying; why he had pursued a suspected crook with little regard for the consequences. What he had taken for a mere bleeding-heart was more like a battle-ready warrior. This boy lived and breathed a need to fight back against any kind of wrong - not just for his own sake, but for anyone else he came across as well. Remi could not remember having ever met anyone - young or old - throughout his storied career, who had displayed anything like the compassion and determination that this humble boy possessed. The discovery of it left him more than a little staggered.

After a minute, Martin turned to his companion with a sheepish smile, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.

"I'm sorry," he said, almost shyly. "I wasn't having a go at you. You are a great local journalist in your own right, and if I can be half as good at the job as you are, I will be satisfied. I should have listened when you told me to stick to the story. However well I meant, it was wrong of me to go off and do something like this without authorization. I acted in a way that was not good for the reputation of the paper, and even worse for my own well-being. Everything I just said... well, it was nonsense, really. Just the concussion talking. The aims that I have are highly impractical, foolishly idealistic."

"Perhaps," Remi said; and, to his embarrassment, his voice was a little thick. The boy's dedication to his cause had affected him, though he was trying his best to hide it. "But then, I have always had a sympathy with idealists," he went on, rapidly formulating this philosophy on the spot.

"Truthfully," he reiterated, seeing the boy's look of faint surprise, only realizing right then how much he truly meant it. "Many long, cynical years on the job have not swayed my affinity with them. Idealists can be surprisingly practical people, in the most unlikely situations. In fact, I would go so far to say that an idealist is the most useful person to have around, especially under the worst circumstances. A realist will only see things as they are, and concede or despair; but the naive idealist can see past what _is _to what _should be_, and never stops pushing for it, no matter how fanciful or unlikely it may seem. They chase after what they know to be right, while the rest of us follow in their wake; and all those numbers will eventually forge a path, however long it takes. But such tides of change tend to start with an ideal, and who better than an idealist to carry it forward, at the head of the charge. In my experience, idealists are quite often the ones who really get any meaningful things done."

Martin mulled this over with grave solemnity. "I hope you are right," he said, simply.

Remi glanced at the boyish profile alongside him. "I think I might be," he murmured softly to himself.

He smiled a hopeful sort of smile, leaning back as comfortably as his seat would allow, enjoying the inaction while it lasted.

One day, their cadet was going to be formidable indeed. Having the boy around the office could only get more interesting - and, he strongly suspected, more trying - from here on in. But for now at least, he was sincerely looking forward to it.

The Emiles of the world would need to watch out.

* * *

_Author's note: well, this is my take on Tintin's motivation for the life of adventuring he leads and his role as the ultimate boy scout, international champion of humanitarianism. I don't think it's particularly original; it's just one possible reason why he is so socially-aware and willing to risk his own life for the sake of others. It is not so much survivor's guilt, as it is a natural abhorrence for all forms of wrong-doing, and a powerful drive to personally see things set right; as well as fairness and kindness, he values awareness, prompting him to become the official spokesperson of the disadvantaged through his journalistic role. That is the way I see it, anyway._

_The food that Martin and Remi eat is somewhere between _carbonnade flamande_ and _frikandel_, two home-style Belgian dishes that are somewhat like beef casserole and hot dogs, respectively. I was trying to think of something nutritious, filling and convenient that they might find in a Belgian hospital cafeteria, and this is what I came up with. Do not consider it in any way authentic._

_For the person who asked, since it is mentioned again in this chapter: yes, this story takes place in Brussels, Belgium. _'Paris Flash_' is taken directly from _'The Castafiore Emerald_'; it is a publication that a certain opera diva particularly deplores._

_This story-within-a-story was what I really wanted to tell; everything after this is going to seem slightly anti-climatic. Still, I have a mystery left to solve, and I will stick with it if you will. I hope to see you at the next chapter, whenever that may be! ~ W.J._

_p.s. thank you to everyone who bought one of my Tintin prints, more than $120.00 AUD was raised for the Red Cross Nepal earthquake appeal, the response exceeded all my expectations! I have a slightly defective print that I am giving away; if you want it please send me a message, all I ask in return is proof - a receipt or transcript - that you have given a donation of any amount to Red Cross. Check out my deviantArt profile (Wai-Jing, with a hyphen) for details!_

_I am thinking of doing a new, similar print for UNHCR and the refugee crisis in Syria. If anyone would be interested in it, please let me know!_


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